


fingers in a fist like you might run

by awesomecharmander



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Enemies to Friends to Lovers, M/M, Oikawa Tooru-centric, also plot? in my fic? it's less likely than you think, oikawa and ushijima both have a few things they need to grow out of, the working title of this fic was oikawa tooru and the existential crisis so be ready for that
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-08
Updated: 2020-05-08
Packaged: 2021-03-03 01:54:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,061
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24077035
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/awesomecharmander/pseuds/awesomecharmander
Summary: Upon finishing high school, Tooru's only wish was to get into a well-respected university with a great volleyball team.And somewhere, far away, one lonely finger on a monkey's paw curled in tandem with that thought.
Relationships: Oikawa Tooru/Ushijima Wakatoshi
Comments: 53
Kudos: 210





	fingers in a fist like you might run

**Author's Note:**

> Yes, Oikawa's characterization is half conjecture and half projection, what about it?
> 
> As always, comments and constructive criticism are welcome, but please be nice :')
> 
> Title comes from "Other Side of Paradise" by Glass Animals.

Most days, Tooru thinks the gods are in his corner. Come on, just look at his face, surely that took some divine intervention. Yet as he steps into his college’s volleyball gym, coming face to face with the horrid sight of _Ushijima motherfucking Wakatoshi_ serving with the same dedication he demonstrated whenever he and his team of prodigies wiped the floor with Aoba Johsai, he feels like every deity in the world collectively decided to desert him.

_No. Nope. This isn’t happening. Not him._ His brain violently tries to reject the reality that his eyes convey: Ushijima can’t be here, not after all he’s done. Hasn’t Tooru suffered enough?

“Oikawa. I wasn’t aware you had enrolled at this university as well,” he hears Ushijima’s rumbling voice ring out from the other side of the net, proving once and for all that this isn’t a horrible fever dream.

Tooru wants, more than anything, to turn on his heel and leave this gymnasium, this campus, possibly this very city, to ensure he never encounters his rival’s odious face again. Alas, volleyball is the only thing he refuses to relinquish. He’s not sure how he’s going to reconcile that with the fact that Ushijima’s going to be on the wrong side of the net for the next four years, but he knows the first step will entail an ungodly amount of whining to Iwaizumi on the phone.

“Yeah, life likes to sucker punch you like that sometimes.” The syrupy sweet voice comes to him naturally, as does the too-sharp smile that accompanies it. It’s one of his most grating dispositions, which, needless to say, is exactly the point.

Infuriatingly, Ushijima is as unflappable as ever, merely shrugging before returning to his serves. Tooru wants to punch him in the nose.

It’s that barely restrained anger that fuels him for most of the practice hours — he jumps high, hits hard, reacts fast, spurred on by the imagined sound of bone breaking under his fist. Every time he feels his (fairly disproportionate) rage subside, he manages to catch the wing spiker out of the corner of his eye, and his engine immediately revs up in response.

By cleanup time, both his teammates and coaches are suitably impressed by his drive, blissfully unaware of the boiling resentment lurking underneath. Good. Tooru wants them on his side when he eventually puts into motion his plan to ruin Ushijima’s life.

Not that he has a plan. He would have concocted one by now, but his circumstances present him with a conundrum: he is, above all, a setter, and he can’t deny that Ushijima Wakatoshi is a formidable weapon, even if he would prefer to sync up with any other player (yes, even with that annoying shrimp from Karasuno), and he can’t in good conscience harm the team by removing him from the equation.

“Iwa-chan, you won’t _believe_ who’s in my team,” he hisses into the phone as soon as he gets into his dorm.

“Hi to you too, asshole,” is the disinterested reply.

“It’s Ushiwaka! Fucking Ushiwaka! That oaf! I can’t believe this.”

Iwaizumi winces, uncharacteristically sympathetic. “That’s rough, that guy fucking sucks.”  
  


“I know!” Tooru recognizes he’s practically screaming into the phone at this point, yet every decibel in the world pales in comparison to the frustration he feels. “You should have seen him, acting like it’s all good, and for him it _is!_ He finally gets what he wants, I _have_ to set to him!”

“Alright, you don’t have to shout! What are you going to do about it?”

“There’s not much I _can_ do, is there?” Tooru bitterly asks, sitting on the bed with a violence quite unlike his usual grace. “He’s Shiratorizawa’s golden boy, there’s no way I’d manage to kick him off the team.”

“But you thought about it anyway, huh? God, you’re a bad person.” Despite his words, Tooru can hear Iwaizumi’s smile.

“That’s beside the point, Iwa-chan.”

A sigh comes from the other side of the line. “Please don’t do anything stupid, Oikawa.”

“How dare you! I would never jeopardize my chances, especially not for Ushiwaka, of all people.” Tooru lets his shoulders droop. “I guess ignoring him is my best bet.”

“I guess so.”

*

Of course, while the plan seemed fairly straightforward, it forgot to account for one thing: Ushijima is clearly trying his hardest to rebuild the burned (better to say completely obliterated) bridges between them, striking up (awful, stilted) conversation with Tooru whenever he can, which, considering they share quite a few classes, is way too many times to handle.

Ushijima isn’t stupid, Tooru knows that much. He can probably pick up on the thinly veiled loathing Tooru directs his way whenever they cross paths. Regardless, he seems impervious to it, simply carrying on with asking about Tooru’s diet, his classes, his workout routine; an unrelenting focus that leaves Tooru wanting to claw out of his own skin.

“You’re majoring in Biology, you said?”

“Yes, Ushiwaka-chan, that’s what I told you yesterday.” His voice sounds strained even to his ears. Why does Ushijima have to major in Agricultural Engineering, of all things?

“Might I ask why you chose Biology?”

“Why do you care? Isn’t it enough that we have to play volleyball together?”

“I was curious, that’s all.”

“Ah, haven’t you heard? Curiosity killed the cat,” he snaps.

As their professor finally begins her lecture, Ushijima sighs, nearly imperceptibly, and turns away. Tooru almost feels bad about rewarding his earnest attempts to extend an olive branch with more bile. _Almost._

To make matters worse, most people seem to think they’re friends, mistaking their familiarity for fondness. Whenever they get paired together during practice, he wants to grab the coach by his lapels and scream, “No, you’ve got it all wrong! There’s nothing I would enjoy more than serving a ball directly into his face, please don’t make me set to him again!”

Because, every time he does, the result is more than the sum of its parts.

Tooru is a professional, and he _will_ get that main setter position, even if that means having to ask Ushijima what kind of tosses he prefers, and, on his end, Ushijima is unfortunately an amazing spiker, tearing through blocks with an enviable ease. They fit, cogs within a well-oiled machine, and whenever Tooru hears the resounding smack of the ball against the gym floor, there’s a satisfaction there that Ushijima’s presence can’t quite dampen.

He hates it.

It feels like a betrayal, despite every single one of his former teammates knowing how much Tooru despises him, how their collaboration is a cruel twist of fate and nothing more. It feels like he’s proving Ushijima right, proving he really could have accomplished more if he had gone to Shiratorizawa.

Ushijima hasn’t said anything of the sort to him since they started playing together, yet Tooru can see it in his eyes. Though Ushijima Wakatoshi is too stupidly noble to be smug, he’s the closest thing to it.

*

It seems life still has a bone to pick with Tooru, because on one fateful afternoon, he twists his ankle after a particularly poor three-person block. It’s not the pain that bothers him (his abused knee can attest to that), but instead the knowledge that he’ll be out of commission for at least one week, barred from the one thing he truly loves.

He’s proud to say he manages to get to the infirmary with minimal help from Ushijima, who, _naturally_ , volunteered to go with him as soon as he noticed something was wrong. Tooru really doesn’t get it: being a decent person is one thing, but this is getting ridiculous.

“You know the good Samaritan shtick only pisses me off even more, right?” He doesn’t bother with pretense this time. It would be lost on Ushijima, anyway.

“How very much like you to assume it’s an act,” is Ushijima’s only response, as he pulls up a chair to sit next to Tooru, who’s currently on one of the infirmary beds, arms crossed and leg propped up by two pillows.

“What’s _that_ supposed to mean?”

“You always assume the worst in people.” Ushijima fixes him with a stony look. “You’ve been doing it to me since junior high.”

Tooru laughs, though it’s completely devoid of mirth. “Really? Oh great Ushiwaka-chan, tell me more about how you totally didn’t mean to imply my former teammates were trash and that my talents were wasted on them.” At Ushijima’s silence, he continues. “Did I misinterpret _that_ part? No? I thought so.” He clenches his fists, nails digging into his palms. “Don’t you _dare_ lecture me about anything.”

“I am not lecturing you.”

“Sure sounds like it. But maybe that’s your default setting — you’ve been up on that high horse of yours for so long you’ve gotten used to the view.”

Finally, Ushijima frowns. “It has never been my intention to appear sanctimonious. Whenever I mentioned your poor choice of high school, I only had your best interests in mind.”

“Did you now? Because last I checked, we both lost to Karasuno, but Seijoh at least managed to win once.”

“And yet your team never managed to make it to Nationals,” Ushijima says, steel in his voice.

“So what? Yours never managed to win it, in the end.” Tooru can feel the pain from his twisted ankle and his irritation muddle into hysteria, turning his own voice higher-pitched and irregular.

“I had thought being on the same team would lay this petty argument to rest once and for all, but it appears I was mistaken.”

“How could it? You haven’t even apologized!”

“I have nothing to apologize—”

Before Ushijima can finish his sentence and be brutally murdered by a furious Oikawa Tooru, the nurse shows up.

“Ah, Oikawa-san, we’re arranging to take you to the hospital, would you mind waiting just a few more minutes?”

Instantly, Tooru’s demeanor changes. “Not at all, sir! Sorry for the trouble.”

The nurse only smiles at him before stepping out of the room once more.

“Anyway, I hope you don’t finish that sentence, Ushiwaka-chan,” Tooru says, with a pointed smile that fails to reach his eyes. “Take a good hard look at this last year, at which team you lost to. Your ridiculous notion that Shiratorizawa would always prevail was torn to shreds by some nobodies, wasn’t it? So kindly fuck off with that _unfertile soil_ crap, ok? Thanks.”

And just like that, the argument is over, silence filling the room until, eventually, Tooru is whisked away into a doctor’s office.

*

In all honestly, Tooru is glad for their little spat. It was a long time coming, and maybe Ushijima will at last get the hint and leave him alone.

Of course, he really should know by now that his original theory was wrong, and that the gods truly, unquestionably, hate him.

Because Ushijima doesn’t back off, _oh no_ , he doubles down on his efforts to smooth things over. If before he wanted concord, now it seems he wants absolution. Which is utterly ridiculous — Ushijima Wakatoshi doesn’t _do_ guilty, considering he never says what he doesn’t mean. For all Tooru wants an apology, he knows he’ll never get one, not unless Ushijima changes his mind, and what’s the likelihood of _that_ ever happening?

So, he figures, there must be something else at play, some unseen problem that only Ushijima’s diligent mind can pick up on. Something that drives him to sit right by Tooru’s side on the auditorium the next time they share a class, and say, “I’m sorry if I insulted you.”

In the following seconds, Tooru tries to keep himself from replying. Ignoring Ushijima is still the plan, despite their squabble, yet Tooru has never been good at not hungering for the last word, be it on the court, or on conversations with aggravating wing spikers.

“How very much like you to assume I’m angry because you offended _me_ ,” he spits back.

“Then why, exactly, are you angry?”  
  


Tooru grits his teeth. Ushijima sounds so damn earnest, like he genuinely doesn’t understand what he’s said wrong, and it only enrages him further. _He’s so self-assured in what he says, like all the bullshit he spews is fact, and not his garbage opinion._

“Pay attention, Ushiwaka-chan, because I’m only going to say this once,” he starts, voice low and barely restrained. “I don’t care if you think my _worthless pride_ clouds my judgement. I care that you think you’re so superior that you’re allowed to call my teammates insignificant.” The lead tip of the mechanical pencil he’s holding breaks. “I care that you throw those words around while having no idea of the work they put in. I may insult your personality, sure, but even I have the decency not to mock someone else’s efforts.”

Tooru sneaks a glance to his side, and marvels at what he sees. Ushijima looks, for the lack of a better word, startled, as if he’s only now realizing the extent to which his words have been misinterpreted. _Though they weren’t, were they? You always say exactly what you mean. You just never seem to think about what those same words mean for the people who hear them._

Ushijima is quiet, after that, though he still hovers around Tooru like a particularly silent fly. He always manages to be there, at the edges of his peripheral vision, wanting to get close yet, for the first time, hesitant to.

Tooru knows, intellectually, this respite will be short-lived. Ushijima Wakatoshi faces his troubles head-on, relentlessly, until they’re solved, and he’s no exception. He can already predict the following days: the fence-sitting won’t last much longer, and Ushijima will then pester him with the same non-apologies until he decrees they’ve gotten back to normal.

*

Their next real conversation comes two weeks after their last, later than Tooru expected, during extra practice. It makes sense — they’re the only ones left at the gym, everyone else long past trying to keep up with their fervent devotion to the sport.

“Oikawa,” Ushijima calls to him, in-between serves. “Could I talk to you?”

“You already are.” When he doesn’t continue, Tooru sighs. “What is it?”

“I’d like to apologize for my behavior, these past six years. You were right, I made little of you and your teammates’ efforts, and for that I’m sorry.” And then, to Tooru’s eternal torment, he bows. “I’d apologize to them in person as well, but I’m afraid I have no way of contacting them.”

Now it’s Tooru’s turn to stare silently. This is what he had wanted, right? An honest-to-goodness apology, if he couldn’t fulfill his original desire of pulverizing Ushijima during a match. So why does he feel even angrier? More to the point, why does Ushijima always have to be so goddamned honorable?

“You really piss me off, you know?”

Ushijima has the gall to look confused. “I don’t follow.”

“You’re disgustingly virtuous and it pisses me off!” He serves the ball he’s holding with such force its rebound hits the wall. “You _had_ to take the moral high ground, didn’t you?” He picks up another ball and serves again. “Is there even a flaw in your design? Something, _anything_ that makes you as mediocre as the rest of us?” He can’t so much as look at Ushijima as his hands start to tremble. He serves once more to keep himself occupied. “How dare you be the bigger person, too!”

Tooru knows he’s being irrational, knows this tantrum isn’t the correct response to Ushijima’s genuine apology, yet it doesn’t matter. This has simply become another loss. Ushijima Wakatoshi is not only a better player than Oikawa Tooru, but a better person as well.

Finally, he sits down in defeat, arms around his knees and face hidden from view. “Now I can’t even hate you in peace.”

“Oikawa, I—”

“Could you not? Please? I’ll clean up, you can go on ahead.” Tooru is tired, so tired. He feels as if he has run a marathon, only to lose it by a few precious milliseconds.

“If that’s what you want.”

He hears Ushijima’s footsteps getting further and further away, and then the door closes and he’s left to stew in his own bitterness. Because that’s all this is, right? Bitterness. Tooru is bitter. He’s so bitter that sometimes he feels it will choke him.

He had managed to deal with it, when he had had a fighting chance against those seen as better, but now? Ushijima is an _ally_ , and his excellence is more evident still, now that Tooru can see it up close.

Tooru can _never_ compare.

The thought haunts him as he cleans up, as he takes a shower, as he gets to his dorm, as he falls asleep.

_I will never compare._

*

Outwardly, it may seem as if nothing has changed between them — Ushijima still lingers, and Tooru still steps on his toes whenever possible. The push and pull of their acquaintance still maintains the steady rhythm of slight antagonism.

However, an exceptionally attentive observer might notice that, now, there’s a hint of worry in Ushijima’s questions, and a caution that inches closer to self-restraint than to wariness in Tooru’s replies.

Tooru feels profoundly off-kilter, unsettled by having Ushijima, usually blunt to a fault, treating him as if he’s a cornered animal. Shiratorizawa’s former ace doesn’t meet others halfway; he goes ahead and all but demands the rest rise to his level. It’s a wretched thing, knowing he’s the exception to that rule.

But he doesn’t have time to be angry at the humiliation, as Ushijima’s progress on the court doesn’t slow down — Tooru might lose in character, but he refuses to lose at the sport they both love.

So he throws himself into volleyball with his characteristic intensity, honing his skills until they’re razor-sharp blades: serves precise and brutal, tosses controlled and elegant. He won’t be the main setter just yet, experience and seniority weighing heavily against his dexterity, but that delayed gratification merely fuels his drive further.

“Oikawa!”

“Yes, coach?”

“We’re having two-on-two matches, you’re with Ushijima.”

“Understood.”

As he moves to his side of the net, Tooru breathes a sigh of relief. Matches require minimal chatter, the words automatic, instead of deliberate like they are during spiking practice, and while he trusts Ushijima not to get distracted with extraneous matters, he prefers not having to trust him, at all.

He isn’t unaware of his coaches’ machinations; he can tell they’ve been pairing him with Ushijima far more often as of late, clearly trying to set them up as the next setter/ace duo of the team. He’s flattered, frankly, that they think highly enough of him to bet the team’s future on his strategies, though he’s not all that grateful for the extra time he has to spend near this version of Ushijima, who seems to observe him even more closely than before, monitoring him for cracks in the veneer of stability he built up.

He wants to tell Ushijima to quit looking; tell him that he’ll only find deadly currents in Tooru’s hidden depths, dragging him under and robbing his lungs of breath; tell him he’s not brittle, but venomous, instead.

Really, Tooru wants Ushijima to stop giving him the pitying looks that, thankfully, he never spared his way when there was a net separating them. Pity, Tooru figures, is no more than the saccharine façade of condescension, and he hates it just the same.

*

With classes and volleyball working in tandem to keep Tooru’s mind off his own discontent, the summer holidays arrive faster than anticipated, and with them sweet reprieve from Ushijima’s cloying company.

“It’s terrible, Iwa-chan!” Tooru whines, throwing himself onto his bed. “I didn’t think he could make things even more awkward, but he somehow managed.”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes at him as he lazily spins on the chair by the desk. “To be fair, _you_ were the dumbass that overreacted to his apology. If anything, it’s your fault things are awkward.”

“Overreacted? Are you kidding? It’s just like him to be the bigger person so I feel bad for how I treated him. It’s all part of his plan to torment me!”

“Do you hear yourself right now?”

A pout. “You’re right, that buffoon is too dense to ever come up with something that elaborate.”

“Yeah, well, it seems to me that now _you_ owe him an apology,” Iwaizumi says, the upturned corner of his lips betraying his amusement at his friend’s plight.

Tooru groans. “Don’t you think I know that? That’s the worst part. Apologizing to Ushiwaka? _Me?_ How the mighty have fallen.”

“Eh, I wouldn’t give myself too much credit, if I were you. I have it on pretty good authority the mighty don’t throw tantrums just because someone isn’t as petty as them.”

“Rude! You’re so rude, Iwa-chan.”

“I calls ‘em like I sees ‘em,” Iwaizumi shrugs. “Seriously though, your training camp’s in a few weeks, right? Apologize to him then. It doesn’t have to be flowery or even heartfelt, you know that. Stop obsessing over it.”

“Aww, are you worried about me? I knew there was a heart underneath that uncouth exterior of yours.”

“Fine, die of embarrassment the next time you see him, I don’t care.”

*

Later that night, Tooru lies in bed, staring at the fluorescent stars littering his ceiling.

For all the childishness he projects, he knows himself well enough. He understands why his entire body rebels at the thought of apologizing to Ushijima, why he can’t help but twist his words into cruel barbs.

His resentment is an old thing, a habit he never learned to break, a small hurt that festered until, septic, the child he had been had disappeared entirely, leaving only this acidic young man behind.

His rival had been nearly secondary, compared to how wronged by fate he felt. At least, at first.

Because Ushijima Wakatoshi seems to have been designed with the single purpose of besting Tooru in every conceivable way. He’s the victor to Tooru’s perpetual runner-up.

And, of course, he’s the honest, righteous hero to Tooru’s perfidious, bitter lancer. Even their personalities reflect the natural order of the world: Ushijima at the top, basking in the sunlight; Tooru below, in his long-reaching shadow.

It’s pathetic, how much he wants to eliminate that gap. Despite his words and bravado, he has spent six years chasing Ushijima’s back, to no avail.

Though he struggles, he can never compare.

_But…_

But there’s no point to that philosophy, is there? No point to sitting back and complaining that the world didn’t make him a genius. What was it he had thought, all those months ago? _Talent is something you make bloom. Instinct is something you polish._

Somehow, he had forgotten his most essential realization amidst the shock and indignation of seeing Ushijima in that gymnasium.

This anger he feels — it can’t go on forever. It’s corroding his insides, hollowing him out. What will he have left, if he lets it run its course?

It would be nicer to just _be_ , for once.

He goes to sleep clutching that thought in his hands, feeling slightly lighter than he has in a while.

*

His stomach has been trying to digest itself since he woke up. He feels it all throughout breakfast, the treacherous muscle contracting instead of expanding, all in anticipation of what will most likely be the most grueling experience of Oikawa Tooru’s life.

This is the day he apologizes to Ushijima and finally buries the hatchet, to his younger self’s profound disappointment.

He’s never been one for trepidation, yet that’s exactly what he feels, as he arrives at the train station and comes face to face with the man he simultaneously wants and dreads to see.

“Oikawa,” Ushijima calls out. “Good morning.”

Tooru hesitates, a minuscule delay between his mouth and his words. “Good morning.”

That seems to satisfy the wing spiker, who silently returns his gaze to the train tracks.

Tooru takes a deep breath. _You’ve got this. It’s a simple apology, no need to get flowery, just as Iwa-chan said._

“Ushijima.” _I think this may be the first time I use his actual name._

“Is there something wrong?” _There it is again, that same bizarre concern!_

“No! Well, yes, but…” _Ugh, get it together!_ “It’s just… I’m sorry, ok? For the way I acted when you apologized to me, or something. It wasn’t fair.”

Ushijima is staring. Tooru thinks, a little manic with nerves, that maybe this will be their relationship from now on — one of them apologizes, and the other stares in incomprehension.

“Don’t look at me like that. I’m not a bad enough person to refuse to apologize when I’m in the wrong,” Tooru snaps automatically, only to wince at his bad attitude. “Sorry, force of habit.”

He can tell Ushijima is trying very hard to stop staring. So far, he’s been unsuccessful. Tooru should probably say something else, put this train wreck of a conversation out of its misery, yet he can’t. He has never been good at this — the talking. Sure, he can charm just about anyone, but most of his friendships are skin-deep for a reason. Honesty is too much, too exhausting. He doesn’t bother, normally, and it’s hard to let go of the impulse to minimize the weight of his words.

“Look, can we move on from this? Because you’ve been walking on eggshells around me for the past few weeks and, somehow, that’s even more off-putting than your laughable self-confidence.”

“My confidence in my abilities isn’t laughable,” Ushijima replies, and Tooru suddenly realizes that perhaps he’s not the only one with knee-jerk reactions to what the other says.

“ _That’s_ what you’re choosing to focus on?”

“You got even angrier, after my apology, then abruptly stopped. Was I not supposed to find that odd?”

This is the hardest part. He had hoped Ushijima would accept his apology with minimal questioning, similarly to how he always accepts the reality presented to him with ease, but naturally, luck is not on Tooru’s side. He feels like every single one of his cells has entered apoptosis at once, and that, in a few seconds, he’ll disintegrate and be done with this excruciating affair.

When the sweet release of death doesn’t come, Tooru resigns himself to the loathsome road of honesty.

“I was angry that you weren’t the bastard I had built you up in my head to be. Then I realized how stupid that was, and the fight went out of me.” A half-truth. Tooru can’t quite bring himself to explain how, most often, Ushijima still feels like a monument to his personal shortcomings.

Ushijima stays silent for a moment, then nods. “I see. I apologize for assuming something else was at play. That was presumptuous of me.”

“It’s fine. Just stop treating me with kid gloves, alright?”

“Of course.”

In the grand scheme of things, one awkward conversation on a train station probably doesn’t amount to much, but, to Tooru, it feels like a breakthrough, nonetheless.

*

“Ushijima!”

Tooru’s toss arcs through the air, ball meeting Ushijima’s waiting palm at the perfect moment before he hits it viciously across their opponent’s court side. As the whistle that signals their victory comes, Tooru lets satisfaction wash over him. Life’s so much easier now that he allows himself to enjoy it.

“Nice toss.”

He looks at Ushijima, and the automatic urge to take offense at the compliment almost doesn’t come. “Thank you,” he says instead, nearly frowning at his own docility.

Kawabata, their captain, smiles. “Glad to know we won’t end up seeing your pretty boy ass in prison after all,” At Tooru’s raised eyebrow, he clarifies, “This is the first time I’ve seen you _not_ try to kill Ushijima with your sick eye lasers.”

“Oh.” Tooru looks away. “Yeah, we… We sorted some things out,” he says, fighting to keep his embarrassment at bay.

“Good. We were _this close_ to betting on where you’d hide the body afterwards,” Kawabata says, clapping Tooru on the shoulder before heading towards the locker room.

Tooru snorts. _I was that obvious, huh?_

*

“Ushijima, I’ve wanted to ask you for ages: why’d you pick Agricultural Engineering, anyway?” their third-year libero, Sugiyama, asks over dinner on their second week of camp.

“Yeah, why that? No offense, man, but it sounds a bit… dull,” a fellow first year, Nishihiro, chimes in.

Tooru listens in — a few months ago, he wouldn’t have cared, but now he can’t help his curiosity. Ushijima’s thought process has always been unfathomable, and what better way to peer behind the curtain than this?

“I’ve always been interested in the more technical aspects of plants and their cultivation. Agricultural Engineering seemed the logical choice.”

Nishihiro sighs good-naturedly. “That’s such an Ushijima-like response.”

“What do you mean, technical aspects?” Tooru finds himself asking. He’s not sure why he bothers. Maybe he just wants to know what interesting looks like, to a man as stoic as Ushijima.

“Plants are, at their core, paradoxical, at once both fickle enough that too little sun is enough to doom them, and resilient enough to break through concrete. Their success hinges on the alignment of several environmental factors: temperature, humidity, type of soil, among others. The interplay of those variables, and how to harness them for our benefit, is what we study in Agricultural Engineering. I find the mechanics involved fascinating.”

“It sounds like you memorized that out of a university brochure.” Tooru shrugs. “Fair enough. I still think I’d die of boredom with that as a major, but whatever, to each their own.”

“You never mentioned why you chose Biology, in the end.”

“No, I guess I didn’t.”

Ushijima doesn’t insist. Perhaps he would have, at the start of the school year. But he’s not quite who he was then. Neither is Tooru.

He’s not sure how he feels about that.

*

Tooru wishes personal growth was a one-and-done deal, a eureka moment that permanently altered his brain’s wiring.

Alas, nothing is ever so simple.

He’s trying. He _is_. He does his best to control his temper, to refrain from lashing out at everything Ushijima does or says. But it’s hard to shrug off the resentment he’s been carrying for the better part of a decade.

Maybe it would be easier, if he could look at himself and believe there’s anything worth appreciating. Tooru knows, objectively, that he’s a talented setter, that most people consider him handsome, that he’s successful in his classes. He knows. He just can’t see how it matters. Every accomplishment feels smaller, when it’s his.

Ushijima’s multiple victories over the years only serve as confirmation to what he’s painfully aware of already: Oikawa Tooru is, at heart, unremarkable.

Naturally, he chafes against this idea, consciously rejects it, yet his traitorous mind refuses to dispel the notion definitively.

His convictions fluctuate from day to day. Sometimes hopelessness gets the better of him.

Sometimes, though, he feels a new idea take shape just outside his reach. A new conception of self, one less dependent on constant comparison to his peers, slips through his fingers. He can never hold it for more than a breath, but its memory stays with him.

The more the memory crystalizes with each passing visit of the same elusive thought, the easier it is to call back the concept.

Sometimes, he catches himself thinking that the particular arrangement of his quirks is enough to justify his existence, that his specific permutation is worthwhile in and of itself.

The notion never sticks, of course, but its shadow lingers.

*

The training camp draws to a close, and Tooru starts his second semester with a spring in his step that hadn’t been there since April. His breathing isn’t as labored, lately — the weight pressing down on his sternum is getting smaller.

Ushijima is already sitting down for their shared Organic Chemistry class by the time he arrives, and, for the first time, he finds himself heading his way.

Ushijima nods his head. “Good morning.”

“Is it a good morning if we’re going to hear about chair conformations for two hours?” he groans in reply.

“You dislike chemistry?”

“It’s not my favorite, no.”

“What is your preferred class, then?”

Tooru wonders why Ushijima still tries. He’d think him lonely, if he didn’t know any better. These questions, this _interest_ , aren’t born of desperation for familiar company. Far from it. This is Ushijima at his most emblematic: stubbornly refusing to let Tooru weasel his way out of acknowledging his existence. ‘ _I recognize you, so recognize me too’, huh? Typical._

“The name is rather uninspired, but it’s Vertebrate Biology. We study anatomy, embryology, what have you. It’s nice because it’s specific enough that you get a thorough understanding of things, but broad enough that it never gets boring.”

“A straightforward answer. How novel.”

Tooru starts. “Did you— Did you just sass me?!”

Their professor chooses to start talking at this exact moment, effectively preventing him from ever getting his response.

Perhaps that’s for the best. Tooru doesn’t know if he could handle the truth, anyway.

*

If someone had told him in the beginning of the school year that his routine would encompass voluntarily hanging out with Ushijima, Tooru would have laughed himself into an early grave.

However, that is precisely what he finds himself doing.

It’s not that he plans it, exactly. He doesn’t go out of his way to clear his schedule for the sole purpose of spending time with Ushijima. It just… happens on its own.

Tooru tries to rationalize it — he sits down next to Ushijima during lectures because he always arrives early and manages to land decent seats; he has lunch with him because the wing spiker’s height makes him easily identifiable among the sea of heads that overwhelms the cafeteria every day; he studies with him in the library because his stern disposition keeps everyone quiet in their periphery.

Excuses, all of them, Tooru knows.

The awful, ridiculous truth is that he _enjoys_ spending time with his oldest enemy. Tooru isn’t sure when or why the change took place, only that it did, irrevocably, and that he’s powerless to change it.

Perhaps he could have countered it, doubled down on his venom and chased Ushijima away, if only he had wanted to.

But there’s something about Ushijima — something about his honesty, his forthright dedication to everything he does, his quiet, barely-there humor — that draws Tooru in, keeps him intrigued.

Ushijima Wakatoshi has his own gravity, Tooru is beginning to realize. A pull so unlike his own, but no less powerful due to it. The weight of Ushijima’s presence bends life itself around him.

Tooru is a meteorite, hurling fast into the ground.

*

“I chose Biology as my major because I’ve always liked aliens.”

If Ushijima is surprised at the _non sequitur_ , he doesn’t show it, continuing to eat his lunch and merely gazing at Tooru to show he’s listening.

“I was obsessed with them as a kid.” Tooru smiles, self-deprecating. “The stereotypical way, government conspiracies and the like. I devoured every American blockbuster known to man.

“As time went on, though, I became more curious about the lifeforms themselves. What would they look like? How would they eat? Would they have intelligence? If so, how would they communicate, if they could at all? Questions upon questions that made me vibrate with excitement.

“I guess most people would think Astronomy when talking about this sort of thing. But that perspective always felt lifeless, in a way. Too technical. The planets and stars weren’t what captured my imagination.

“I ended up reading this one article, a few years ago, that talked about how octopuses have a consciousness that can be seen as alien, since it’s so evolutionarily removed from ours.

“In hindsight, I guess that’s what finally made me decide on Biology.”

Tooru waits with bated breath, though he’s not sure what for. Somehow, this feels important, like he’s giving a part of himself away.

“I see,” Ushijima replies. “The mechanisms that rule the natural world called to you, as well. Only in a different way.”

Tooru laughs quietly. “I guess you’re right. Maybe I’m duller than I thought, if I share that in common with you,” he can’t help but tease.

“Perhaps. Oikawa Tooru, boring. What a curious notion.”

“Though the likelier option is that you’re more interesting than expected, seeing as your major relates to mine, and I am, as we all know, quite exceptional.”

Ushijima looks down at his plate, shaking his head almost imperceptibly, though Tooru can see amusement glinting in his eyes. That’s something new, as well — knowing Ushijima enough to read his subtle expressions.

“Thank you,” he says now, leading Tooru to raise an eyebrow in confusion. “For telling me the reason for your choice of major,” he clarifies.

“Oh. You’re welcome, I guess.”

Ushijima’s candor is utterly disarming.

Tooru can’t find it in himself to truly resent him, this time.

*

_The nights are getting colder_ , Tooru thinks as he walks out of the volleyball gym, burrowing further into his scarf.

“Are you cold?” Ushijima asks, falling into step beside him.

“I’ll be fine. It’s just the wet hair — this weather isn’t good for my good looks.”

“Is that why you refuse to wear a hat?”

“And make this catastrophe worse? No, thank you.”

“How melodramatic.”

Tooru huffs. “You’re the one who kept insisting on us getting along, now you have to deal with all of this. You only have your own bad taste to blame.”

Ushijima grows silent, pensive. That’s alright with Tooru: less danger of letting the venom out, this way. He settles into his own stillness, letting the rain-soaked wind hit his face.

“I am glad there’s no bad blood between us, anymore,” Ushijima says, startling Tooru out of the quiet.

“Well, we’re friends now, aren’t we?” he replies, waving his hand flippantly. _I can’t believe I’m saying this. I can’t believe it’s not even a little bit sarcastic._

“You still hold yourself away, just a little.”

Tooru stops. Ushijima’s remark was quiet, more of a thought said out loud than an actual response. Tooru can pretend he didn’t hear it.

He doesn’t want to.

“You’re really perceptive when you want to be, huh?”

Ushijima says nothing. Tooru looks up at the starry sky, wondering when Ushijima realized that waiting him out was the best way of getting an honest answer out of him. It infuriates him, yet not in a way he’s familiar with.

“You’re so _good_. Not just at what you do, but as a person too. It’s… intimidating.”

Ushijima frowns. “It has never been my intention to—"

“I know. That just makes it worse.” Tooru sighs, peering at Ushijima out of the corner of his eye. “Whenever you’re there, it’s hard not to think about what I lack. What I’ll always lack.”

Ushijima tilts his head, the gesture so unlike him Tooru wants to laugh. “I fail to see the issue.”

“Excuse me?!” comes the offended reply.

“There will always be attributes specific to you, just like others will always be out of reach.” At Tooru’s suspicious gaze, he continues. “I will never be able to bring out the best in every individual spiker, like you can. Or fit three layers of meaning into a single sentence. These things, which you regard as insignificant in their simplicity, are to me inaccessible. Yet that’s alright, because there are those only I can do.

“Yes, you will always be Oikawa Tooru, but that’s not a bad thing.”

_Oh._

“That’s… probably the longest I’ve ever heard you speak”, Tooru says, hiding behind his scarf, but there’s a smile in his voice.

_He’s right, isn’t he?_

“I’m serious.”

_It really is that simple._

“I know.” Tooru looks at Ushijima, and, curse his luck, he’s _fond_. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome.” And hidden away in the slight tug of Ushijima’s lips, he can see that same affection softly emerge.

*

In the months leading up to the Intercollegiate, Tooru eases fully into his new reality. It’s still terrifying to be exposed to someone else’s gaze, someone as exceptional as Ushijima, but there’s a surprising comfort there, too. Ushijima is the most trustworthy person Tooru knows, in the end — Iwaizumi coming in second because he’s a big ol’ meanie who enjoys seeing him suffer.

Practices are getting progressively tougher, though he can find nothing but excitement singing in his veins. College-level volleyball provides a whole new array of challenges and potential strategies: he wants to drink it all in, commit every pass, set, spike, block, and serve to memory.

He can’t sit still these days, overtaken by the near-constant hum of anticipation.

The only one who seems to share his restlessness is Ushijima himself, who sometimes needs _Tooru_ to be the one to put the brakes on his extra practice. It’s odd, finding himself being the responsible one for once, especially towards someone as reliable as Shiratorizawa’s former ace.

Tooru finds his tunnel vision somewhat endearing, in its familiarity.

“Ok, Ushijima, let’s wrap this up,” he says, clapping his hands to get his attention.

“Already? Oikawa, it’s—”

“Almost 9pm, actually.”

Ushijima looks at the large clock hanging on the wall, frowning at what he sees. “You can go on ahead. I’ll work on this for a few more—”

“Sorry, no can do. The last thing we want right now is for our promising left-handed rookie to get injured.” At Ushijima’s dissatisfied face, he insists. “Come on, do I really look like someone who errs on the side of caution? If I say you should stop, that means you should have done it ten minutes ago already.”

Ushijima straightens up, letting the ball he was holding fall back into the cart. “If you say so.”

“I do! Now, let’s go, I’m starving.”

“You didn’t have to wait for me.”

Tooru chuckles. “Bold of you to assume I’d ever leave this gymnasium before you.”

“You haven’t given up on the competition between us?”

“I prefer to see it as a healthy rivalry.”

“A symbiotic relationship, of sorts.”

“Quite.”

The gym falls into comfortable silence as they put away the net, mutual exhaustion turning words unnecessary, even unwelcome.

_Maybe that’s what companionship is, in the end_ , Tooru thinks. _The ability to share silence._

*

They lose. It’s a close thing, both teams fighting tooth and nail for each point, seemingly unending rallies nipping away at the players’ stamina and focus. Ultimately, their opponents had simply been _better._

It’s an unfamiliar experience for Tooru, not carrying the full weight of defeat on his shoulders — after all, he wasn’t the captain, wasn’t even a regular. He can’t find something in himself to condemn.

So no, he doesn’t blame himself.

That doesn’t make the loss sting any less.

His frustration is reflected in Ushijima’s eyes. “I had forgotten how it felt, being on the sidelines, powerless to change the match’s outcome.”

Tooru looks at the tense set of his shoulders, disappointment plain for all to see, and knows he’s probably not fairing much better at concealing his own misery.

“It’s almost worse,” he murmurs. He knows Ushijima will understand.

“Yes. You can’t so much as direct your discontent inward.”

The lights in the gymnasium seem dimmed, the sounds muffled, as they walk the halls towards the exit. The numbness is starting to set in, drying tears and weighing each step with exhaustion.

“We’ll win, next time,” Tooru says quietly, straightening his spine.

The response is automatic, but then, he expected nothing less.

“Yes. Together, we will.”

*

Tooru lets his head fall against the table, taking care to make it as soundless as possible while maintaining the adequate amount of theatricality. With midterms creeping ever closer, he has no choice but to waste away in the library for hours at a time, and while most of his classes are interesting enough to keep him motivated, Organic Chem still manages to bore him to tears more often than not.

“Maybe it’s not too late to change my major,” he says, listening for Ushijima’s response.

It doesn’t come, the wing spiker continuing his calculus worksheets resolutely. Tooru pokes his cheek.

A sigh. “What is it, Oikawa?”

“Tell me not to give up on Bio just because chemistry is hard.”

“Don’t give up on Bio just because chemistry is hard.”

“Not like that,” Tooru pouts. “Be a little bit more convincing.”

Ushijima’s pencil stills, and he turns to face Tooru fully. “It’s one class, nothing you can’t handle. I expected more resolve from you.”

“Ugh, _fine_. I’ll work,” he groans. _Damn him and his stupid high standards._

It still floors Tooru sometimes, the unwavering faith Ushijima has in him, has had in him from the start. It annoyed him for the longest time, seemed presumptuous to his unkind gaze, yet now it invigorates him, makes him want more out of himself, out of his life.

He picks up his textbook with grim determination, and Ushijima returns to his own studying, faint smile playing on his lips.

*

Tooru manages to survive his midterms, somehow, returning home if not in glory, at least not in defeat. He’s excited for the winter holidays, seeing as his college schedule demands a self-control that isn’t all that pleasant to maintain, and he’s in desperate need to unwind.

“Iwa-chan, movie marathon at my place tonight!”

“Aren’t you supposed to be an adult and _not_ fuck up your sleep schedule on your first day back?”

“Probably, but _Star Wars_ is worth it. After that, we move on to _Star Trek_.”

“Is this your dumb way of apologizing to the ether for associating with someone who confused the two?”

Tooru doesn’t bother denying it. “Ushijima didn’t even know who _Darth Vader_ was.” He brings his hand up to his chest in mock offense. “Who failed him?”

Iwaizumi rolls his eyes. “Maybe you should watch it with him instead, you nerd.”

“I made him promise he’d watch _Star Trek_ first, during the holidays. I mean, it’s arguably the better universe, and I wanted to make a good first impression.”

“Hear that? That’s the sound of millions of _Star Wars_ fans running full speed towards us just to kick your ass,” Iwaizumi says, dry tone of voice paired with an unimpressed gaze.

Tooru, naturally, ignores him. “So, are you coming?”

“Only if we watch the new Godzilla movie, too.”

“Hear that? That’s the sound of your hypocrisy.”

With crossed arms, Iwaizumi replies, “Fuck you, Godzilla is rich with subtext and metaphor.”

“Yeah, yeah, we get it, you read the Wikipedia page.”

“I _will_ join that horde of _Star Wars_ fans, Oikawa, I swear to God.”

“Fine, we can watch Godzilla,” Tooru says.

“Glad to do business with you.” He stops. “Wait, did you say you managed to strong-arm Ushijima into watching _Star Trek_?”

“Yeah? I made a reference, he didn’t get it, I couldn’t let that slide,” Tooru shrugs. “It was either that or murder, but I didn’t want to ruin my progress.”

“Right. Why do you care?”

Tooru waves his hand airily. “It’s an important soft skill, to be well versed in pop culture. I’m just helping him out.”

Iwaizumi looks at him, and Tooru realizes what he’s getting at. _I get it, a few months ago I was throwing a fit at having to apologize to him, and now this. ‘Oh, look at how the turntables’, and all that._

“Don’t look at me like a proud mom, Iwa-chan, it doesn’t fit your rustic aesthetic.”

“You’re such a dumbass.”

*

As he lies awake at night, trying to fall asleep amidst Iwaizumi’s soft snoring, Tooru realizes he might have a problem — when had Ushijima become a permanent fixture at the forefront of his mind? Anywhere he goes, there he is: in the coffee (which Tooru knows he drinks black), in the sunlight (during outdoor practice, Ushijima sunburns, just the slightest bit, on the bridge of his nose), in the chatter of the people around him (a conspicuous absence of his low, even voice).

Tooru can’t escape him, any more than he can escape himself.

It feels like a revelation, though the setting feels decidedly inadequate. He turns inward for answers, but his inquiries are only met with the obvious. Ushijima is considerate. Ushijima is honest. Ushijima is strong. All of this is evident.

He wonders when he stopped seeing these attributes as attacks on his person and started seeing them for what they truly are: parts of a stupidly enchanting whole.

_God fucking damn it._

*

It seems impossible to ignore, now that he knows his own heart. Ushijima texts him, giving a full report on the episodes he’s watched, and Tooru stares at the words for longer than he would like to admit, imagining them in his former rival’s matter-of-fact delivery. He keeps turning around, laughter half-stuck in his throat, expecting Ushijima to be there to share it in his understated yet heartfelt way. It’s pathetic. Ridiculous. He’s soft with it, and maybe a little silly.

_I really am in love with this dumbass, aren’t I?_

Tooru was doomed to lose in the end, wasn’t he? He can’t think of a more decisive defeat than this: looking at the simple messages with crinkling eyes, uncaring about the wrinkles they’ll bring in time. He tries to contain his frenzied thoughts, he _does_ , but they spill out of him regardless, in repeated motions and repeated sighs.

Iwaizumi catches on quick, and makes fun of him endlessly.

“I’d call it karmic punishment, but that would just feed into your victim complex.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” Tooru says, turning away from him, chin high in the air in defiance.

“You have to admit it’s a little funny.” Iwaizumi presses on, shaking his head in the exasperated fondness only childhood friends can possess.

A huff. “I admit to nothing.”

“So… Are you going to tell him?”

Tooru laughs. “Just to get the most awkward _no_ of my life? No way, I’m too pretty for that.”

He knows Iwaizumi sees through him, but that’s alright. He’s an old enough friend to know when to push, and when to change the subject.

*

At night (these reflections always come when it’s quiet), Tooru doesn’t sleep.

Because, despite the nearly omnipresent giddiness bubbling up his chest, he is afraid. Afraid, for he doesn't expect reciprocity. Afraid that will be his undoing, love curdling and rotting once more into resentment. Afraid, for he still does not trust his better nature, does not trust it to shield him from his own yearning.

He yearns. Maybe he always has. But his desire is not a poetic thing: it’s a hunger; a black hole; a ravaging, violent inferno. It consumes him, body and soul.

He does not fear for Ushijima’s sake — Tooru knows he can weather any storm, overcome any obstacle — but for his own. He’s used to self-destruction, yet for once, he sees something in himself worth protecting.

He’s come so far, and he cannot bear to be his own undoing, this time.

*

It’s surprising, how little things change. They still spend an inordinate amount of time together. Ushijima still suffers through Tooru’s rants about whatever sci-fi show has piqued his interest for the moment. Tooru still makes them work flawlessly on the court.

Truly, the only difference is the constant existential crisis at the back of Tooru’s mind.

He wakes up every day with a plan to keep his heart firmly inside his chest, and he goes to sleep every night realizing he completely forgot to do so at Ushijima’s first glance his way. It’s frustrating, how affection seems to soften his edges.

Of course, none of it matters when they’re playing volleyball.

“I don’t want their libero getting a good look at your spike in the first sets, while he still has the energy to adapt. I’ll use the center more often, so try to conserve your energy until the last half of the second set or so, ok? I want you ready to beat them to submission from then on. Sounds good to you?”

Ushijima nods, and Nishihiro chuckles. “It’s a practice game, Oikawa, no need to be all _The Art of War_ about it.”

“Every game is an opportunity for me to become the main setter,” Tooru grins.

“You know, that might have sounded cool coming from anyone else, but I can’t take your dorky ass seriously, so…”

“How dare you?! Ushijima, back me up on this.”

“You cried as we were watching _The Mandalorian_ , yesterday. I believe that lends credence to Nishihiro’s assessment.”

Tooru gasps. “I should have known you’d betray me.” He points his finger at Ushijima. “In my defense, baby Yoda is just too cute.”

“I don’t deny it.”

Nishihiro rolls his eyes. “Anyway, let’s get in position. They’re serving first, and I hear this dude’s a crafty one.”

“Jump floats, right? God, those are annoying.”

“Indeed,” Ushijima says, casual demeanor melting off his stance and giving way to the leonine air Tooru knows like the back of his hand.

It’s still exhilarating to play alongside Ushijima. That, Tooru knows, will never change, regardless of how his soul twists and breaks under its own weight. Ushijima is a force of nature; one Tooru feels a vicious sort of satisfaction at enhancing to its most devastating. As long as he stays on the court, he is free to share his all with Ushijima.

Yes, Tooru can at least have this, and he’s trying to believe it’s enough.

*

As they step out of the library, Tooru realizes night has fallen in earnest. It’s the invariable result of their study sessions on Saturdays, when they don’t have practice — they lose track of time, their own focus motivating the other until the work is done and the sky is dark.

“So, do you want to get dinner and then watch a movie or something?” Tooru asks, nudging Ushijima with his elbow, hands still firmly in his pockets, voice landing on the wrong side of casual.

“I accept the dinner invitation, though afterwards I had planned to read a book I checked out from the library.”

“You wound me with your cruel rejection,” Tooru says. “What’s it about? The book, I mean.”

“Running.”

“Running?”

Ushijima nods. “I thought going over the theory might help me improve my training and therefore my stamina.”

“Huh.” Why does he find this so endearing? Tooru buries his face in his hands. “You’re such a dork. I can’t believe I want to kiss your stupid face.”

Ushijima’s steps come to an abrupt end. “What did you say?”

Tooru freezes. His hands should have been enough to muffle his exasperated confession, but Ushijima has always paid too much attention to what he says. It’s the first time he begrudges him for it.

He tries to laugh, to assume his boyish façade with a flippant comment about Ushijima’s imagination, but he finds words have turned to molasses in his throat. His heart, on the other hand, is a hummingbird, collapsing in its poorly designed cage.

“I didn’t say anything.” He is breathless. Why is he breathless?

Ushijima gives him a measured look — Tooru is on a mortuary slab, ribcage pried open, exposing his insides.

“Oikawa, what did you say.”

“I didn’t say anything,” he repeats, crossing his arms, wanting to go down with the ship. He almost can’t hear Ushijima over the rushing in his ears.

“Tooru, _please_.” His name, in Ushijima’s lips. Tooru’s heart stills.

“What did you say.” The same sentence, now a soft invitation.

“I…” Tooru’s deep inhale is hindered by his lungs’ refusal to expand. “I want… to kiss you”, he admits quietly, so quietly, nearly inaudible, but Ushijima hears him. He always has.

“Then… can I?”

Tooru can’t look at him. He wants to, _needs_ to, yet still, he is afraid, though not of rejection, this time.

No, Tooru is afraid of burning alive, flesh melting away and leaving him bare, see-through. This shift in the Earth’s axis will be permanent, if he chooses to embrace it.

There is a hand, tentative, at the edge of his vision.

It takes all he has to hold it, to sigh, “ _Yes”,_ to relinquish all other sighs.

Ushijima’s touch buzzes with electricity. Tooru thinks he might just die from it. And he’s gentle, oh-so gentle, carefully bringing Tooru near, expression bordering on reverent. It’s a good look on him.

When their lips meet, Tooru’s thoughts scatter. There is nothing but Ushijima’s warmth, his hands cupping his jaw, and the soft, chaste kiss that Tooru never dared to imagine. There are no fireworks behind his eyelids, but that seems insignificant, when his heart is bursting out of his chest, deciding at once to reside in Ushijima’s, instead.

When they part, Tooru lets his head fall on Ushijima’s shoulder, eyes still closed. He’s afraid if they open, the moment will shatter, and he’ll plummet headfirst into the harsh reality below.

“Tooru,” Ushijima murmurs, and has his voice always sounded so lovely? His hand falls on Tooru’s neck, cradling it, pulling him impossibly closer. “I want to date you. I hope that’s clear.”

“Crystal,” Tooru’s voice breaks. “I want to date you too,” he whispers back.

Ushijima exhales, and Tooru marvels at the thought that he might have been nervous as well.

“Then I am happy.”

Tooru laughs in wonder. “I’m so happy I could die.”

They hold each other in silence, the late hour allowing a privacy they wouldn’t have had otherwise, and Tooru thinks, somewhat delirious, that the gods do love him, after all.

After what seem like minutes, Tooru finally raises his head, meeting Ushijima’s gaze with wide, awed eyes.

“Wakatoshi,” he says, because he can, because he wants to feel the name’s taste.

And Ushijima — no, _Wakatoshi_ — flushes, and Tooru laughs once more. _So this is all it takes to bring him down. Easier than expected._

Victory has never tasted sweeter.

*

Some things change, though most don’t. They already spent most of their time together, meals and study sessions and movie marathons on the weekends — if now their knees keep touching under the table, or if they suddenly go quiet when their eyes meet, well, no one needs to know.

“It’s all so surreal, isn’t it?” Tooru asks.

“You know, it’s really sad that you find happiness surreal,” comes Iwaizumi’s answer through the phone.

A huff. “You know what I mean, Iwa-chan, don’t be tiresome.”

“Yeah, I get it, it’s weird to think anyone would put up with you voluntarily.”

“It’s so tragic how you think you’re funny.”

“I’m hilarious and you know it.”

“Whatever,” says Tooru, airily. “You’re just upset because I have a hot, talented boyfriend and you only have premature wrinkles from frowning so much.”

“Yeah, but he’s _Ushijima_. I’ll pass, thanks.”

“How dare you question my taste?” Tooru asks with mock offense, then pauses. “ _This_ is what I’m talking about! In what world do I, Oikawa Tooru, _defend_ Ushijima Wakatoshi? It’s so improbable.”

“You’ve always been a contrarian little shit,” Iwaizumi replies, and Tooru can almost hear his accompanying shrug.

“I prefer ‘unconventional’, thank you very much.”

“I prefer ‘annoying’, but that’s neither here nor there.”

There’s a knock at the door, and Tooru startles. “Wakatoshi’s here! So sorry to cut our marvelous banter short, Iwa-chan, but I have a date! Try not to stew on your own loneliness too much,” he teases without bite.

“Yeah, yeah,” Iwaizumi says. “Have fun.”

Tooru smiles. “Thank you. I will.”

He hangs up and opens his dorm room door.

“It’s rude to leave people waiting,” Wakatoshi says, corners of his lips slightly upturned.

“Yes, two seconds, how can you forgive this grave insult?” Tooru asks, locking his door and lacing their fingers together.

Wakatoshi chuckles quietly, and Tooru swears he’s glowing a little. “I’ll manage.”

Spring is in full swing, and Tooru lets the sunlight warm his face, content despite the allergies that will no doubt start to plague him soon. The school year is nearly over, thankfully, and with all exams behind him, he can finally relax and enjoy the sights.

Wakatoshi is a sight, too. The most extraordinary one, in Tooru’s (admittedly biased) eyes.

“You’re staring,” he now says.

“I am.”

“Why?”  
  


“Because I want to. Because I can.”

“And?”

“Because I love you,” Tooru replies, as easy as breathing.

Wakatoshi squeezes his hand.

“I love you too,” he says, and Tooru is home.


End file.
